


Grey Areas

by waxjism



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M, embarrassing early efforts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-01-01
Updated: 2000-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 19:03:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waxjism/pseuds/waxjism





	Grey Areas

**in the beginning: simon**

It was probably inevitable, Simon figured, that Becker would have wanted to have his fun with Sandburg first. Sure, the crazy fuck was as loose-hinged as a brothel door, but he wasn't stupid and he didn't suffer from a Superman complex. What he had was two large, tall, well-trained, ex-army cops - and one considerably smaller and less intimidating anthropologist. What would you do?

Of course, with hindsight, it would probably have been better for Becker to just try his luck with either Simon or Jim. They were strong and aggressive and knew how to throw a punch, but neither of them had the audacity or inventiveness or pure cheek of a Sandburg on the brink.

Right then, of course, Simon was none too happy with how things were going down. It was bad enough that the nutcase had gotten the drop on him and Jim so easily, bad enough that they were hog-tied and helpless in this dusty, derelict room, bad enough that Sandburg had gotten hurt - and now they had to watch Becker push his gun in Sandburg's face while he cut the ropes around the kid's wrists and ankles, before kicking him sharply in the side to make him get up already.

Sandburg hissed and groaned, but scrambled to his feet without stalling. He didn't look too good. Not good at all, in fact. The nasty cut he'd taken in the shoulder was pretty deep, and it was still bleeding. They'd never gotten the chance to put any pressure on it or anything else, for that matter. The ratty green flannel of Sandburg's shirt was black and heavy with blood, and he looked pale and shaky and bordering on desperate.

When the asshole with the gun pushed him toward the middle of the room, the kid seemed to pull himself together by sheer will, squaring his shoulders and lifting his head.

Goddamnit, but the boy has some balls, Simon thought, but the thought felt too much like an obituary to be comfortable. Like 'He Died With His Boots On'. Well, He Died With His Nikes On, in this case.

Sandburg went quietly enough until Becker gave him a last shove and, calmly but with barely concealed glee, said, "On your knees."

"I'm not going to die on my knees, man," Sandburg said, and there was that familiar stubborn tilt to his head. Next to Simon, Jim pulled in a shocked breath.

Becker seemed a little unsettled by this grievous breach of protocol, and of course Sandburg plunged right ahead. More balls than common sense, Simon amended.

"Man, you don't really want to kill me," Sandburg tried. Becker rediscovered both his balance and his smug grin.

"Sure I do. Sure I do." He raised the gun, and Simon saw Sandburg turn a whiter shade of pale, but refuse to break eye-contact or back down an inch. And then, unexpectedly, there was a shift in his stance, a subtle rearrangement of muscle and bone, and the kid was no longer steeling himself for the inevitable. Gone was the stoic acceptance of imminent death. It had been replaced with, with something very different: promise? The barest traces of a smile flitted across his mobile, open face, the stiff posture relaxed into the loose-limbed, cocky slouch of the completely at ease. Simon looked, fascinated, for a crack in the perfect act, but found none. Uncanny and inexplicable. What the hell was the kid up to?

"No, you don't," Sandburg said, and the voice was different as well. There was no defiance there, only muted, suggestive confidence. The smile grew just a fraction, and now Simon could swear he saw an almost seductive gleam in the kid's eyes.

"What the hell?" he whispered, and Jim turned to meet his eyes, and Jim looked both scared and proud.

"Death has nothing to offer you," Sandburg was saying, his voice approaching a purr, low-pitched and slow and intense. Becker had frozen in his tracks. "A dead body is an empty room, man," continued Sandburg, unhurried. "It's cold. You don't want cold, I can tell. You're looking for something alive - something hot."

Jesus H. flagwaving Christ! What was he doing?

"You--" Becker sputtered, the gun wavering just enough to be noticeable.

"Blood, man. It's all in the blood. Sweet and heavy and so. Full. Of life." Sandburg took a slow, deliberate step forward. His movements were strange to Simon. What had happened to the happy Sandburg bounce? This creature moved like water, like silk, like everything soft and seductive in the world.

"Blood is hot with pain and promise--" and Sandburg raised a very steady hand to his shoulder - the wounded shoulder - and stroked once, without hesitation, across the open wound. "This is my pain," he said, still holding Becker's enchanted gaze. "You opened me to this pain. You. It's my pain, but it's your pleasure," and somehow, the word pleasure was infused with such an amount of power and pure temptation that Simon felt cold fingers of anticipation trail down his spine.

"Pleasure that is yours for the taking. I'm offering, but you have to reach out and take it. I'm weak, I'm getting weaker, but I'm hot on the inside, and it's all _right_ here."

The words made no sense; as far as Simon was concerned it was all pure gibberish, but he was starting to see what Sandburg was doing. Hell, it was plain on Becker's face that it was working to some extent.

"Don't," Becker said, but there was no force in the negation, and there was an awakening interest, a fascination - breathless, helpless and instinctual.

"All you have to do is take it," Sandburg cooed, and took another step closer. "You can taste it, can't you? And smell it. You want it, you want it in your mouth, in your hand. It smells sweet, but the taste is spicy and hot. I can show you what it means to be alive."

How did he know? How the hell did he know just what to say? And the voice - it was so suggestive that Simon found himself shaking his head like a wet dog to break the spell. Jim was staring at Sandburg like he had no idea who the kid was. Simon sympathized.

Sandburg was still going on in that low drawl, about blood and life and pleasure and heat, and now it was all getting pretty obvious. Sandburg was pushing buttons, he was pushing them like a little kid with a PlayStation and he knew all the moves.

And he was advancing at his spellbound, but still dangerous prey. He was taking small steps as his voice grew huskier and his eyes smoldered and Becker stayed pinned to the spot.

"You can feel it. My blood is singing in my veins. You've tapped the source, and I know you want it. Take it. Taste it," and he was unbuttoning his shirt with small, confident flicks of his fingers, letting the threadbare rag slide off his shoulders, the way a high-class call girl might slip out of her silk negligée. The undershirt went the same way, and Sandburg stood bare-chested in all his furry glory.

"I can feel the blood pour out of me. I can feel it trickle down my chest in burning streams, over my skin, down ... down..."

Becker was panting now, deep, harsh breaths, and Simon found himself thinking, oh Jesus Lord, he's going for it, he's gonna do it, and then Sandburg touched his shoulder again, put his fingers right into that hideous wound without so much as wincing, and said, "It's all for you. You just have to take it," and then Becker was right there, chest to chest with him, up close and way personal, and Becker pushed his gun snug under Sandburg's jaw and bent down to sniff or lick or bite (or whatever) the wound.

Then things got very hot and very heavy very fast, as Becker grabbed Sandburg's denim-clad ass with his free hand and pulled the kid's hips forward against his own. He jerked and rubbed against the kid like he was the latest in blow-up dolls, all the while pressing his face into the raw flesh of the shoulder wound. Sandburg was still talking, but his voice had dropped to a whisper, and Simon couldn't hear anything above Becker's heavy breathing and the sound of cloth rubbing against cloth.

Then Becker was whispering too, and the next thing Simon heard was the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone, and oh Lord, that was Sandburg's hand pushing down into Becker's jeans, and Becker bucked and groaned in ecstasy and bit down, and Sandburg groaned as well, a deep, throaty sound, but it was agony masquerading as lust, not the other way around.

Sandburg's hand - the one that wasn't on Becker's dick, that was - trailed slowly up Becker's back, over his shoulder, down his arm. Heading for the gun. Then Becker's humping reached a frenzy, and for an excruciatingly long second, Simon thought the fruitcake was gonna pull the trigger and blow Sandburg's head off as he came, but then it was happening, Becker was howling and grinding like there was no tomorrow, and Sandburg, in pain but cool as a cucumber, plucked the gun from Becker's limp hand and smoothly pushed it against his face instead.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Becker's other hand dropped from Sandburg's hair (where it had travelled at some point, to tug and release, tug and release) and went for the SOB holster where his backup weapon was, at which point Sandburg pulled the trigger without so much as blinking.

Becker dropped like a clubbed oxen while the shot still reverberated in the bare-walled room. Sandburg turned to look at Simon and Jim, and Simon flinched when he saw the kid's gore-streaked face with those wide blue eyes glittering like jewels in mud. Where was gentle, new-age Blair? Who was this primal maniac with blood and brain matter drying on his face?

Then Sandburg looked down and looked at himself, and gingerly touched the sticky mess of blood and spunk on his belly. He blanched visibly, and dropped gracefully to his knees and threw up on the floor next to the twitching corpse.

When he resurfaced after a long bout of dry-heaving, he was his old self again. Pale and hurting and frantically wiping vomit off his mouth, but clearly plain old Sandburg, light soul and science geek. He didn't look at Becker at all.

He left the gun where he'd dropped it, next to the faceless body. He seemed a little disoriented, looking around the room with a little, distracted frown on his face. Then he spotted his shirts lying in a haphazard heap on the floor. Simon watched him pick them up gingerly, as if they were evidence on a crime scene (which they, come to think of it, were). The kid's hands were trembling like an old man's when he used the undershirt to wipe some of the mess off his body and face. In fact, the whole man was shaking violently, whether from shock, exhaustion or cold.

"Chief," Jim said softly, startling both Simon and Sandburg.

"Jim--" Sandburg started, swallowing convulsively, clutching the bloody shirt to his chest like a shield. "I'll-- I'll just--" and then he crumpled to his knees again for another bout of dry-heaving.

Christ. He looked like shit. Apparently, that laid-back cool - that whole professional seduction shit he'd pulled off - had all been completely faked. Simon came to the conclusion that he'd both under- and overestimated the kid. Underestimated his guts and his courage and his resolve, overestimated his resilience and endurance. Sandburg seemed to have tapped that attitude from some deep-seated source of energy that had now run dry. The kid had given all he had, and what was left was war-weariness and despair.

"Chief," Jim said again. "Chief, cut us loose. We'll take care of everything. You did good. Just a little bit more."

Simon heard every kind of pain in his friend's voice. Sandburg must have heard it as well, because he seemed to slump even more where he huddled on the dirty floor, shrink in front of their eyes. He wiped his face again with the sodden shirt, and rolled over with a sigh. For a second, Simon thought he'd passed out, but then he realised that the kid was digging in his jeanspocket, presumably for that ever-present Bar Mitzvah army knife. He wasn't using his left arm at all anymore, so the digging was a little clumsy. The wound in the shoulder seemed to have stopped bleeding now, but it looked big and raw and painful, and somehow wider now, torn open. Simon hoped, prayed that Becker hadn't been HIV-positive. The sick bastard had bitten down right in the middle of that ugly gash. He'd bitten down and come all over the kid's belly, and then his brains had splattered all over any part of Sandburg that wasn't already covered in bodily fluids, the gunk from his exploded head now running in thick, meandering paths over torn and bruised and broken skin.

After a moment spent just breathing in short, panicky gasps, Sandburg did another one of those amazing recoveries - pulling himself into shape like he was a wind-up toy - and got up on shaky legs.

He had the knife now, and with somewhat overplayed determination, concentrated on the task of cutting the ropes binding Jim's wrists together. Simon observed that the kid was pointedly avoiding meeting Jim's eyes.

Shame, he thought. Sandburg's ashamed. He wondered if this was because he'd just killed someone, or because he'd given a psycho a handjob in front of his best friend. A very professionally executed handjob, Simon realised with dawning dismay. Shit, was that it? Had Sandburg done that before? Was that how he'd pegged Becker's interest as sexual, when Simon hadn't had the barest inkling of anything of the sort?

As soon as Jim had his hands free, he pulled the kid into a tight embrace , stroking soothing hands over the filthy, blood-matted hair, cooing softly as if he were calming a skittish horse. Sandburg's trembles turned into choked sobs, and he burrowed into the hug, pressing his face against Jim's shoulder.

He was mumbling incoherently through fits of crying, and Simon picked up a few loose phrases: "--feel dirty--", "--fucking filthy asshole--", "-sorry--", "--didn't wanna die, didn't want you to die, man--"

Jim bore this half-hysterical diatribe with placid acceptance. When the kid finally calmed down a little, Jim pushed him away just enough to meet his eyes. He held Sandburg's face gently between his hands.

"You did good, Chief," he said, his voice so soft and earnest that Simon felt his own breath catch a little. Sandburg looked dazed, stunned, immensely relieved. "You saved all our lives. Nothing else matters, you get that? Nothing else," and the look passing between them - indeed, the very air - thickened and sparkled with emotion, and Simon had to avert his eyes, because whatever it was, it was intensely personal and not meant for outside eyes, even benevolent ones.

They're in love, he thought. Oh god, how they're in love, and something small and angry and intolerant inside him kept insisting that he take offense at the very idea, but he found himself patently unable to do so, because, damnit all to hell, they'd been through so much, and when you got right down to the very nit and grit of it, who would be better for Jim than Sandburg - without a doubt the only person alive that Jim allowed close - and who better for the kid than Jim, who was most likely the only person Sandburg had ever managed to commit himself to?

  


Later, when the forensic team had pored over the site with their lamps and brushes and cameras, Sandburg had gotten patched up at the hospital, and Jim had shouted and ranted at the IA agent who wanted to grill the kid over the shooting, Simon found himself at the loft, trying to get the two suddenly tight-lipped occupants to go over the day with him.

"We need to decide on a few things," he nagged. He was met by twin blank stares. "Our stories. What are we going to say? There's obviously going to be an investigation. I don't think they've decided yet whether to make it IA or criminal, but they can't let it slide without clearing everyone."

"What do you mean?" Sandburg asked, wide-eyed and scared. Jim put a proprietary arm around him, and he leaned against the older man with a small sigh of contentment.

"Means they have to decide if you were there as a civilian victim, or in an official capacity. You were working the case, after all. It's a legal grey area, Chief."

"I guess that's where the Sandburg zone's at, man," the kid said, and there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Everyone's grey out here."

"In any case," Simon continued hastily, before Sandburg could elaborate on his train of thought, "I need to make a report. Jim has to make a report, and you'll have to give a statement."

"Will they-- uh, will it be, uh, obvious. Um..."

"I think it will be hard to keep a lid on what happened. There's physical evidence. Unfortunately, I can't see how we could. It will have to go in the report, Sandburg. How you managed to, ah, distract Becker enough to relieve him of his weapon. If you don't give enough details, someone will, no doubt, ask you about it. Better write it all down and put the whole thing behind us."

"I don't-- Oh Jesus. I don't know how I could even write about it. I need to. To process it all a little. I'm suffering from a pretty heavy case of category crisis here. I'm not really at ease with who I am right now, Simon."

"Look, Sandburg. Blair. What you did - I don't know a lot of guys who'd have had the balls to pull of a stunt like that."

He didn't look as if he were comfortable with the praise. In fact, he only looked tired and miserable and hopeless. Jim's hand around his shoulders tightened.

Simon got up, suddenly feeling as tired as Sandburg looked. "Look, guys," he said in his best I'm-your-friend-not-your-boss voice, "just write the damn thing as quickly as you can, and show it to me before you hand it in. Okay?"

"Sure, Simon," Jim said softly. Sandburg didn't look up at all, and he didn't acknowledge Simon's goodbye.

**in the grey: blair**

Yeah, okay. So I had my hand on the guy's fucking dick when I blew his head off. There's gotta be something like poetic justice in that, wouldn't you think? Only I can't see it from here. I can only see a whole lotta nothing from here. Grey areas, I told Simon. He doesn't know the half of it.

I've moved into the Sandburg zone, just put a note on the door and packed my stuff and drove down to that place where grey areas float into even more grey. I've become the Sandburg zone. It's like nothing else exists but this racing, churning grey thing in my head, the grey thing that would be bright, bright crimson if I could see any color at all anymore. I can taste the crimson in it, taste the copper-penny tang of it, but I can't see it.

I know that Jim's holding me, and it feels like his hand is the only thing that's keeping me from floating away entirely. Yeah, a heavy, warm Jimarm on my shoulder, warm, wafting Jimbreath in my hair. The warmth out here all comes from him.

Fuck, this is way worse than dying, you know? I mean, dying, hell - there's no one to blame, no recriminations to be made, 'cause after all, it's you that's doing the dying. No problemo, man, I can hack it. But killing - yeah, that's a whole other bag, indeed.

And maybe I can deal with killing. Yeah, I mean, the guy totally had it coming. I couldn't have let him kill me. Not that I couldn't have handled dying, you see - although that would have seriously doo-doo'd in my Cheerios, of course - but thing is, it wasn't just me this time. Uh-uh, nope, nyet and so forth. There was Jim and Simon, tied up like the proverbial lambs and ready for the slaughter. They might have had a chance if Becker could have been counted on to take his time like he'd done with me, but that wasn't gonna happen. He'd've been pissed if he'd figured me out and managed to whack me. Pissed that I wasn't feeling whatever it was that he thought I was feeling. Yeah, I knew what he was looking for and I provided it. Doesn't mean I was sharing the joy, you know. I just basically zoned myself out on the pain and let the instincts take over. It's not hard to do, but it takes it out of a body, I can tell you. And there's always the come-down when you fly that high.

The come-down this time was half a pound of grey matter sloshing over my face. I was fucking choking on the crap. It tasted salty and sweet and not at all bad, and whoo, boy, was that not a thought I wanted to entertain right now. Christ, sometimes my own grey matter plays the nastiest tricks on me.

Okay, so killing a guy isn't exactly up there with a quiet beer in front of the tube, but it's not something to hike out into the grey for, either. There are always ways to atone for pulling the trigger in a case like this one.

No, the thing that seriously crimped my karma was the pretty much inexcusable fact that I felt good pulling that trigger. Yes, ladies and gents, it felt fucking great. Like nothing else ever. Like I'd do it again anytime, that's what it felt like.

Now, I know that feeling had a lot to do with the light trance I'd put myself into. Things are different when you're tripping on your own pain. That doesn't, however, explain, excuse or justify going on a fucking powertrip when you shoot another human being in the head at point blank range. It was still me doing the shooting, you know?

So I guess I'll have to process a little, is all. Yeah. A little. Might take about a year or so, but some day I'll be ready to see colors again.

Only I'll get to that later, because despite the grey area, I'm not going to do anything right now that would lead to Jim taking that arm off my shoulder, or his face out of my hair.

**in the end: jim **

After Simon leaves, Sandburg pretty much shuts down. Jim doesn't want to do anything to disturb him, so he stays where he is, quiet and motionless on the sofa, the still form of his friend heavy against his shoulder. The warm, earthy scent of his body and his now thankfully clean hair rises in gentle waves to surround Jim as he leans his face against the slightly damp curls. He's allowing himself more of this tonight, because Sandburg seems to need the physical contact after the absolute horror of the whole Becker deal. Like maybe he needs it to be Jim on the other end of the connection. Jim certainly hopes so. He's preparing for the long haul, because Sandburg's pulse is slowing down, his breathing evening out. Not enough to indicate sleep, though. He seems to be hovering somewhere in limbo at the moment.

The Sandburg zone, Jim thinks, and it gives him a little frisson of unease to think about it, as if there is a smidgen of truth to that nonsense. Aw, hell, who am I kidding? There are lots of zones out there. The one I go to when I zone, and the one he goes to when, well, whenever he's not here.

Jim can't stop himself from shifting nervously, and he hears Sandburg's vitals speed up again. A second later the still body stirs, and Sandburg says, "Jim."

"Yeah, Chief?" Jim says, hoping this doesn't mean he has to let go anytime soon.

"I'll be okay, man," Sandburg's saying, so apparently there's no rush. He squirms a little, finds a better position, and sinks back into the cuddle - because that's what it is, folks. An honest-to-god cuddle. Just among friends, of course. Nothing to see here, just move along, people.

"Of course you will," Jim says, although he has to admit, at least to himself, that he had his doubts about the famous (or is that infamous?) Sandburg resilience this time.

"I'll just have to deal with it, you know. Find the center and all that. I'm still me, I think."

"It screws with your head, your first--" He bites it off just in time. He's not sure how much Sandburg will want to hear tonight. But there's no change in the calm, rhythmic beat.

"First kill," Sandburg finishes for him. "Yeah, I guess it does. But I think I can work around it until I get my bearings, get my feet back on the straight and narrow. Not to mix too many metaphors or anything," he adds with a little chuckle that sounds like the whole damn Halleluia choir to Jim.

There's more silence after this. A good long bit of it, perfectly comfortable and companionable. Then Jim's brain veers sharply to the left and the question makes it across the trap of tongue and teeth before he can bite down around it.

"How did you know what he wanted?" is what comes out. Too late to take it back.

Sandburg's heartbeat does a little lurch, and he stiffens in Jim's arms.

"Guess he pinged my fucking gaydar," he mutters irascibly, and Jim's disproportionally relieved that he seems more annoyed than upset.

"You have a gaydar, Chief?" he asks, keeping the tone light and non-committal. Sandburg shrugs with his whole body.

"Yeah, no, whatever, man," he says. Thinks a little. Adds, "Not really, no. Well, maybe a little one. For emergencies."

"Like today."

"Yeah, you can file that one under 'emergency', all right."

"How's the thing working right now?" Jim asks, and he can't believe he just said that, but apparently he did, because Sandburg tears himself loose from their very nice and comfortable cuddle, and backs off a couple of feet. Stares at Jim with narrowed eyes.

"Jim, you better not be yanking my chain right now," he says with a measure of not-exactly-veiled threat in his voice, "because my chain can't take anymore goddamned yanking today, all right. You hear me?"

Jim feels his face split in a big old shit-eating grin, and he says, "No, Sandburg, I'm not yanking any part of you. Although I'd really like to," and that's evidently all it takes, because next he's got a whole lapful of Sandburg to yank to his heart's delight.

And it's just as lovely as he's imagined it would be - kissing Sandburg. Sweet and gentle or sloppy and demanding; same difference. Amazing.

And before things get too interesting to stop, he has to ask, "Can you handle this right now, Blair?" Using Sandburg's given name gives the question a new kind of gravity, and maybe he feels it to, or maybe he doesn't, but in any case, what he says is,

"I guess that would be sort of a grey area, man, but that's what we deal with here in the Sandburg zone," and this nugget is served with a smile that is probably aiming for enigmatic, but belly-lands somewhere between silly and half-witted.

Jim doesn't feel obliged to answer, so he dives in for another kiss instead. Sandburg squirms deliciously and pants in his ear. Yeah, this is it - so much territory to explore here, precious, fragrant skin, muscle and bone underneath, and Sandburg's completely right: he is hot on the inside. His heat is seeping through all that smooth skin, making Jim sweat and steam and glow, just like Sandburg is sweating and steaming and glowing.

Jim pushes his hands up Sandburg's back, threads his fingers through tangled, damp hair. He knew beforehand what it would feel like - he's spent years annoying the kid, ruffling and tugging and patting the mop of springy curls - but it's different like this, when he is this close, with Sandburg's breath in his face and Sandburg's groin bumping eagerly against his own.

Sandburg arches his back and groans softly, and for a second, Jim is reminded of the sounds the kid had made when he'd been caught in that twisted clinch with Becker.

This is different, he thinks immediately, pushing down a pesky little twinge of irrational guilt. He came freely to me. He really wants this.

This is undoubtedly true, but Jim still has to lean back and push the kid away a little, search his face for clues as to the emotional weather of the convoluted mind behind it.

"Come on, Jim," Sandburg says, managing to sound worried and horny and annoyed at the same time. He's frowning, but underneath the frown is the rosy flush of lust. "You're not having second thoughts, are you, man? Don't bother having any on my account. I'm okay." He pushes his hips forward, and Jim can't hold back a growl. "I'm really, really okay with this, okay? In fact, I'm so okay now it's almost freaky. I mean, just, like, minutes ago, I was thinking about - I'm thinking about it right now as well, truth be told, and that's the beauty of it - thinking about having that asshole's brains all over my face, you know?"

"Shit, Sandburg!" Jim pants, disturbed and plenty grossed out, but still completely unwilling to let go and have a conversation about brains, psychos, guns, or anything else that doesn't count as pillow talk.

"No, no, no, Jim," the kid's saying, all the time keeping up the hip-thrusting with natural ease, as his decidedly weird mind is working on apparently wholly unrelated topics. "You see, it's all good, man. I'm basically remembering what the stuff tasted like - oh shit, man, I'm gonna lose it, just gimme a sec - and, as you can probably see for yourself, it's not putting the slightest dent in my libido."

"What's your point, Chief?" Jim hisses between clenched teeth, because Sandburg sure as hell isn't the only one about to lose it, and damnit if they're going to sit here and come in their pants like a couple of drunken teenagers.

"My point, Jim - do you think we could, like, lose some of our clothes here, man? - my point, and I was coming to it, really I was, is that I'm okay. That's what you wanted to hear, right? I'm maybe not great, although I must say I'm approaching that as I speak, and I can't say I'm completely, one-hundred-percent sane at the moment, but I'm okay, and things are going to get better, even better. Hmm, yeah - I think the insanity thing can be put down to rampant hormones rather than trauma...What do you think it means when all the grey turned pink? Oh, man, rainbows and things... There's, like, a really funky study to be had of this shit, you know. Post-traumatic boinking. Don't worry, by the way, it's not just PT, I've wanted to do this boinking part for a long time now- ooh, couldn't think of how to break it too you, though. Guess we worked that part out all right--"

Jim stopped listening roundabout the part where the topic veered to the shedding of clothes, and he's working on Sandburg's shirt buttons, letting the words become a comfortable sonic wall to rest his ears on as he indulges his other senses. Funny how smell and taste become so much more important as soon as the sexual cylinders fire up. Jim figures it's all part of the whole genetic throwback deal, although, if this is what it's like to be a cave man, he's really sorry about flying off the wall with Sandburg back then, back then in the beginning.

The shirt comes off, and Jim can bury his face in the hollow of Sandburg's throat - salty, sweet, a trace of something he can't name but recognises as the personal chemistry of the man in his arms. There's the pulse point, fluttering under the slick skin like a moth banging against a window, synchronizing touch to the sound of the heartbeat.

Sandburg's still talking: "--didn't think it would be, you know? Never thought, never never - but here we are, and, man, I'm feeling no pain. I probably should, right? There's that wound, right, but I'm like, hey, what fucking wound? No pain, no pain at all. --Hey, Jim, tell me if I'm bugging you with the commentary, okay? 'Cause, sometimes I get complaints, right, some people can't dig this talking in bed deal. And I can really - aaah - sympathize, but my brain and my body and my mouth are always going down completely different tracks so it's not like I do this on purpose. I had this girlfriend once who got me into bondage just so she could gag me. Fucking excruciating, but kinda fun too, in a really kinky way - you'd look great in leather, by the way, Jim, I can just see it--"

"Don't even think about it, Sandburg," Jim interrupts, before the brain or the mouth - or whatever part of the kid it is that came up with that idea - gets too detailed. A good way to shut him up - gentler and more considerate than using a gag, at least - is to find his mouth (that constantly talking, beautiful mouth) and take it and use it and, yeah, okay, devour it, although that always sounds too much like something out of a Victorian pornographic story. Call it what you may, it works delightfully, and Jim forgets about bondage and too-tight jeans for a while and just enjoys his foray into Sandburg's mouth.

When he's good and done, Sandburg is panting and heaving, and it's probably time to take this show on the road. Jim grabs two handfuls of lovely ass (for a good, tight hold, of course. And to cop a feel.) and flips Sandburg down on the sofa. There's a muted "oof," and then the kid is utterly silent, wide-eyed and silent, while Jim pulls off whatever remains of their clothes and lies down to cover him with his own body.

And it's about damn time, too - there's not much else to do here but rub together and wait for the explosion. Sandburg twitches and writhes under him, and when he comes, he does so quietly, but it's an explosion nevertheless, and it pulls Jim under as well, and he's got no compunctions about howling, none at all.

So there's gentle afterglow, and they're naked and sticky, and some of that stuff probably ended up on the couch, but who cares, really? Jim rests his head against Sandburg's chest, idly contemplating the way chest hair suddenly seems a pretty cool thing.

Then he realises with a start, that Sandburg isn't shivering because of that mindblowing orgasm they just shared, but because he's crying. Quietly, this too, none of that ragged sobbing he did earlier, but crying, unequivocally. Jim's heart shrinks a couple of sizes in his chest.

"Chief?" he says, and it comes out a squeak, and that just won't do. He clears his throat and tries again. "Blair, what's wrong?"

There's a moment or two of muted sniffling, and then Sandburg whispers, "Nothing, really," and that's just stupid, because he knows damn well that there's no way Jim will leave it at that. But maybe he needs to be needled about it.

"It sounds like more than just nothing."

"Yeah, okay, it's something, but it's not important. I think it's just a hysterical fit or whatever. I'm postal, you know. Post-traumatic and post-coital. Messes up the endocrine system for a while. Or something to that effect, anyway."

He squirms and shuffles about until Jim moves and rolls them both over, so Sandburg is on top - he's smaller, after all, so it's only fair. They will stick together when the gunk dries, but neither of them seems inclined to move. Jim pulls the afghan off the back of the couch and attempts to cover as much as is possible. Sandburg sighs and pushes his wet face against Jim's neck. When he speaks, his breath cools the meandering tracks the tears have taken over the heated skin.

"Don't worry, Jim. I'm processing, or I will do that once I get my brain back from my dick, but this is going to be fine. I'm just trying to decide what was more important about today, you know. Shooting someone in the head, or getting naked with you, and I keep ending up on the side of this here couch. And I guess that's just another thing I need to think about some other day when I'm not exhausted and post-coital and coming down off pain meds. Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

Jim's just about to slip into a sex-induced slumber, but that last part is such a jarring non-sequitur that it registers through the haze. He smiles into his cover of messy, silky Blair-hair.

"Yeah," he says, and that is all he's about to say at this point. He drops off to the sound of Sandburg being quiet and just breathing.


End file.
